


drifting through the halls with the sunrise

by ThunderstormsandMemories



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dancing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, background canon marriages + costis/kamet + irene/gen/costis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27394342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderstormsandMemories/pseuds/ThunderstormsandMemories
Summary: Irene and Helen, through the years.OR,The first thing Eddis knew about Attolia was that she was beautiful, so beautiful that no messenger from her country could fail to mention it. When she first heard Attolia described, back before she became Eddis, when Attolia had just taken her own throne, the ambassador who was telling the story of her wedding and her coronation threw Helen a pitying look, and she lifted her chin and stared him down until he continued his account. She knew that she would never be widely considered a beauty, that men looked scornfully at her broad shoulders and her nose that had been broken by the hilt of a cousin’s practice sword and set just the slightest bit crooked. By then, though, she knew that she didn’t need men to be attracted to her to command their respect and their loyalty. She also knew that she didn’t particularly care what men thought of her appearance, and that the feeling that stirred in her when she heard breathless descriptions of Attolia’s beauty was curiosity, not jealousy.
Relationships: Attolia | Irene/Eddis | Helen, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	drifting through the halls with the sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> contains spoilers through the end of Return of the Thief
> 
> warnings: brief alcohol consumption, vague allusions to offscreen sexual content, brief discussion of pregnancy/childbirth

The first thing Eddis knew about Attolia was that she was beautiful, so beautiful that no messenger from her country could fail to mention it. When she first heard Attolia described, back before she became Eddis, when Attolia had just taken her own throne, the ambassador who was telling the story of her wedding and her coronation threw Helen a pitying look, and she lifted her chin and stared him down until he continued his account. She knew that she would never be widely considered a beauty, that men looked scornfully at her broad shoulders and her nose that had been broken by the hilt of a cousin’s practice sword and set just the slightest bit crooked. By then, though, she knew that she didn’t need men to be attracted to her to command their respect and their loyalty. She also knew that she didn’t particularly care what men thought of her appearance, and that the feeling that stirred in her when she heard breathless descriptions of Attolia’s beauty was curiosity, not jealousy.

And then, of course, all of the following reports of Attolia’s beauty were mingled with, overshadowed by, reports of her ruthlessness and her cruelty. Attolia was, the messengers said, beautiful in the way that a poisonous flower or a mountain lion or a brilliant red sunrise that preceded a fierce windstorm was beautiful.

By the time Eddis was Eddis, and met Attolia for the first time, she didn’t care how beautiful she was, except to disdain her for it, for the way she used her beauty to twist the minds of her subjects and to disguise the monster she really was. She still had to remind herself to breathe when Attolia approached her and shivered at the feather-light touch of Attolia’s sleeve brushing against her wrist, and when the scent of Attolia’s expensive imported perfume faded from the fabric of the clothes Eddis had been wearing, she found that for some absurd reason she missed it.

And then Attolia showed herself to the world, or at least to Eddis, which was Helen’s world, as the monster she had always been rumored to be, and Helen fell in love, unexpectedly, with a man, and then Sophos was missing, and Gen was married, and Gen’s support meant enduring Attolia’s presence, until she looked up one day and realized that against all odds Attolia had become her friend, that she craved her presence instead of enduring it, and that now that she knew the woman and not just the mask she wore, she could once again appreciate just how beautiful Attolia was.

Now, finally, she felt jealousy when she looked at Attolia, at the graceful curve of her neck and the elegant angles of her face and the way her hair fell just so in regal ringlets onto her smooth shoulders, and heat rose in her face whenever she met Attolia’s piercing, kohl-rimmed eyes. Except her jealousy wasn’t that she wanted to look like Attolia, it was reserved for Gen and the soft kisses he pressed to her cheek and the casual way he would let his hand rest on her thigh when the three of them were alone.

Sure, Attolia had recently started to touch Eddis’s hand lightly when she had some gossip to share, and she didn’t think she was imagining the way that Attolia’s gaze lingered on her whenever she entered a room, but she told herself that it didn’t mean anything. They were friends, and Eddis was honestly genuinely happy with that, since Attolia was not someone who trusted easily, even though she would be lying to herself if she didn’t sometimes dream of how Attolia’s lips might feel on hers. And anyway, none of that mattered, because Attolia was married to Eddis’s best friend, and she would never betray him like that. So she wasn’t expecting Attolia to take her hand one night as they all gathered in Attolia’s chambers, having evaded their attendants in order to have a few hours of privacy for once.

Attolia’s hand on hers was cool and bony, and lacking the sword calluses that marked her own hands, and she rubbed her thumb over Helen’s, their clasped hands resting on the cushion between them, meeting Helen’s eyes with an expression that was part question and part defiance, like she was daring Helen to pull her hand away. But Helen didn’t want to, so she didn’t. Instead, she stared back at her, and squeezed her hand just a little tighter, and was rewarded by the sight of Attolia’s smile softening with relief.

Gen cleared his throat theatrically, and Eddis jumped, having almost forgotten he was still in the room, but Attolia didn’t drop her hand so she didn’t either, and Gen said, “I can see I’m not needed here. I’ll leave you both to it.”

“How gracious of you,” said Attolia dryly, and Gen smiled fondly as he raised her other hand to his lips for a kiss.

And then he smirked, the kind of look that usually preceded some particularly devastating mischief, or Attolia throwing something at him, and said, “Be blessed in your endeavors.”

“Give Costis my regards,” said Attolia, and Gen threw his head back and laughed. He was still chuckling as he left the room, and as soon as the door closed silently behind him Irene took Helen’s face in her hands and kissed her.

It was even better than she had dreamed.

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Gen surveyed them both and said, with a slightly more kingly version of his usual shit-eating grin, “Congratulations on realizing that you don’t need to pine anymore.”

“Queens don’t pine,” Attolia said. “It’s far too undignified.”

“Ouch,” said Gen. “Eddis, surely you have to avenge that insult to your royal dignity now. What a shame, you seemed to be getting along so well.”

Eddis, reverting back to her childhood methods of dealing with Gen’s nonsense, kicked him in the shin with all the royal dignity she could muster, and Attolia hid her smirk behind the goblet she was conveniently and coincidentally raising to her lips.

Attolia, setting down her goblet with a sharp click, said, “I have to wonder, though, if you’re presenting yourself with the dignity appropriate to your station. After all, aren’t collars that high several years out of style, and too hot for the season besides?”

Gen’s mouth fell open in over-exaggerated offense, but he was indeed wearing a jacket with a collar that couldn’t have possibly been necessarily given the warmth of the day, and Eddis was almost certain he was wearing it to hide whatever bruises had been left on his neck from the night before, a suspicion which was confirmed later when they crossed paths with Costis in the garden and Gen rubbed at his neck absently.

Attolia touched Helen’s hand and they exchanged a knowing look, caught by Gen, who said, woefully, “I think I liked it better when you wanted to have each other killed. Now that you get along you’ll never stop gossiping about me.”

“Never, darling,” said Attolia. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Gen. “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”

“Once or twice,” said Attolia, “but I’m sure I could stand to hear it again.”

“And if you don’t,” Helen said, “I will.”

“See, darling,” Gen said, softly, “how loved you are. I really am happy, you know, that my two favorite people get along so well. You both deserve it.”

“So do you,” Helen said, and Gen’s answering smile was as broad and open as she had ever seen on his face.

“Oh, is Costis no longer your favorite?” Attolia said. “Careful, you’ll break his heart if he hears you talking like that.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a way to make it up to him,” said Gen, and Irene’s laughter, startled out of her in a carefree, natural way that Helen rarely heard but always treasured, was bright and high and clear, like a birdsong or a trumpet call to arms or a bubbling mountain spring, and Helen fell in love with her all over again, so fiercely that her heart ached.

* * *

Eddis stopped kissing Attolia for a while, after mutual agreement between them when she married Sounis, until one night she and her husband were sharing a cup of wine and he said, blushing wildly, “I used to think I was in love with Eugenides.”

“Ah,” said Helen, because she was used to people being at least a little bit in love with Gen, once they got to know him beyond the persona that seemed to be designed to make everyone want to punch him instead.

“I mean, I didn’t really know who he was back then,” said Sophos. “But he was just so… you know?” Helen nodded. She did know. She’d had a version of this conversation with half of her friends when she was younger, and most recently, with Attolia.

And then, in the spirit of fairness, and because Sophos looked so horribly embarrassed at information he probably hadn’t meant to share, Helen laid a comforting hand on his shoulder and said, “I used to be Attolia’s lover.”

“Oh,” said Sophos. He patted her hand where it rested on his shoulder, like he was the one reassuring her now. “Why ‘used to be?’”

Helen shrugged, as if she didn’t still miss the casual intimacy she and Attolia had shared. They were still friends, of course, and had only become closer friends since their countries became allies and then joined together under Gen’s high kingship, but Helen remembered too well how it felt to hold Attolia and kiss her lips and brush her hair back behind her ears, and she still wanted to do all of those things too strongly to not feel awkward whenever their hands brushed together, because all she wanted to do was hold on but she knew she had to let go.

“You came back,” Helen said simply, instead of explaining any of the feelings that she could barely put into words in her own head.

“Oh,” Sophos said again, but this time he sounded strangely guilty. “You know that I want you to be happy, right?”

“Of course,” Helen said, squeezing his hand to emphasize her point. “I love you. I’m happy with you.”

“I know that,” said Sophos, blushing furiously, the way he always did when she was particularly forthright with her affection, no matter how many times she said it. “But if I’m the only reason that you’re not involved with her anymore- I mean- you don’t have to-” He paused, removed her hand from his shoulder so that he could hold both of her hands in his own, and said, with the gravity of the mildly intoxicated, “If you still want to kiss her and she still wants to kiss you, and if she doesn’t want to kiss you anymore than she’s a fool and I will never understand her, but anyway I think that you should if you want to.”

“Say that again in the morning, after you’ve slept off the wine,” said Helen, but she couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across her face and she drifted off to sleep in Sophos’s arms feeling more at peace than she had in a long time, like there had been knots of tension inside her that she hadn’t even noticed until they’d been untied.

She wanted to write to Attolia immediately, to tell her that she still loved her, to tell her how much she missed her, but she knew better than to write those kinds of words down anywhere they could be stolen, intercepted, used against any of them. She wished, briefly, that they weren’t kings and queens, that their lives and loves were their own, that they could entertain ideas like privacy. But instead she contented herself with the knowledge that she and Sounis were visiting Attolia soon, and she restrained herself in her letters to things like  _ the union of our countries ought to be mirrored by the closeness of their queens _ and  _ I look forward to once again being in your confidence and exchanging counsel with you late into the night _ and assumed that Attolia would know that she was flirting.

When she and Sophos arrived, she embraced Gen first, as he was her cousin, and then approached Attolia. She took Irene’s hands in hers and looked up at her, a question in her smile and an answer in Irene’s, soft and small and private despite the audience of onlookers, soHelen wrapped her arms around Irene as well, breathing in deeply the scent of her perfume, her hair tickling Helen’s nose.

There were things that still needed to be said between them, of course, but those could wait until they were alone, and the important thing for the moment was that they were together.

* * *

Eddis stayed by Attolia’s side through the invasion, and the aftermath: Gen’s schemes and injuries and illnesses, Attolia’s worries and anger and pregnancy. Eddis, who was more familiar with the blood of injuries than the blood of childbirth, held Attolia’s hair back as she vomited up her breakfast, and wiped the sweat from her brows, and held her hand even as she thought Irene would squeeze tightly enough to break her fingers, and Attolia returned the favor when it was Eddis’s turn. It was a miserable unpleasant time, but at least she had Attolia there, to comfort her and encourage her, and Sophos and Gen, who were mostly useless, and Galen, who was significantly less useless if less comforting, and at least hers hadn’t been twins.

They couldn’t be together all the time: she and Sounis had to split their time between his country and hers, which didn’t leave very much of the year for Attolia. Still, they managed. They wrote letters, so many letters, and both she and Attolia had long since learned how to conceal double meanings in formulaic political missives but learning how to use the standard bland phrases to flirt was another thing entirely. Attolia was very good at it, and Eddis sometimes had a difficult time not blushing when her letters which were, on the surface, just friendly correspondence between allied monarchs, were read out loud in front of her ministers. They wrote private letters as well, and those could rely less on innuendo and more on sincere expressions of how deeply she cared and how much she missed her, and those made Eddis blush even more. She blamed it on Sophos’s influence. Her own blushing, that is, not Irene’s sappy letters. She blamed that on Gen. The cutting wit, the graceful compliments, that was all Irene, but sometimes there would be a line that crossed over into melodrama or a pun that was just a little too obvious to be tasteful and she could sense Gen’s involvement.

And then there were the visits: fewer than any of them would like, but with travel times between each of their palaces being what they were, they had to make do.

They greeted each other in public, warmly but politely, with more or less the dignity that befitted their station. More, from Attolia. Somewhat less from Gen, depending on his mood. The formal dinners that followed were boring at best, depending on how you defined best, and full of opportunities for Gen to make mischief at worst, while Attolia looked on and hid her smirks behind her wine cup and occasionally attempted to look disapproving in a way that didn’t do much to discourage Gen from whatever he was doing, since she knew just how much he enjoyed seeing his wife’s disapproving face.

After dinner, after they put their children to bed and sent away their various attendants and slipped through the secret passageways, they were finally able to greet each other as friends instead of as fellow monarchs, sharing more cups of wine and exchanging kisses and sometimes withdrawing back to beds they’d have to leave before dawn. On the first night of this particular visit, Helen and Sophos were the last to arrive, and Irene rose to welcome them, dislodging Gen from his comfortable position leaning against her shoulder. He yelped in protest when she stood, and Costis, who had been laying on the couch, eyes closed, lounging entirely across Kamet’s lap with his head in Gen’s, sat abruptly upright, one hand going to his hip like he was reaching for his sword until he realized that there was no danger, and he smiled cheerfully at Sophos and Helen.

“I’ve missed you,” said Irene, taking Helen’s hand.

“You just saw me at dinner,” Helen said, smiling and leaning in closer until their foreheads were touching and she could see the flakes of paint around Irene’s eyes.

“That’s not the same and you know it,” said Irene, moving back enough to let Helen and Sophos into the room. Sophos squeezed Helen’s shoulder and she nuzzled his hand in response as he stepped away from her and went to investigate the cups of wine that Gen was pouring for them.

“So what did we miss?”

“Absolutely nothing you haven’t heard before,” said Kamet, patting Costis’s knee fondly. “Costis was reminiscing about his king and queen dancing.”

“You know we’ve volunteered to teach you the steps,” said Gen. “And Irene’s had enough practice now that she probably won’t step on your feet like she did mine when I was learning.”

“You know I’m not graceful enough for that,” Costis said. “Even the standing part.”

“But that’s the easy part,” said Irene.

But Costis just laughed and shook his head, and Helen said, “I’m sure I could handle it, if he’s too afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” Costis said, with a very adorable pout. “I’m comfortable.”

Kamet, rubbing Costis’s knee and smiling indulgently, mouthed,  _ he is afraid _ at Helen, and Irene took a moment to affectionately ruffle her other lover’s hair before reaching for Helen again and saying, “Let’s teach you how queens dance here.”

Irene took her by the shoulders and positioned her, not in the starting pose for the more stationary role in the dance the way she expected, but in the starting pose for the moving part, the part that Irene herself usually danced, and then she began to show her the steps.

It was a difficult dance, both because it required a great deal of grace, skill, and, Helen suspected, practice, but also because it was different from the dances that she knew already. She was a decent dancer, when she knew the steps. Better than Gen had been, at any rate. The only dance he’d bothered to learn, which she had to admit he was very, very good at, was the one danced on the edges of rooftops, which for him was less about the dancing and more about showing off how well he could balance and how unafraid he was of falling.

Irene was a capable teacher, if a less efficient one than she might have been if Helen weren’t so distracted by the warmth of Irene’s hands through the sheer fabric of her dress, but Helen didn’t mind missing steps, not with Irene there to catch her and the cheers and laughter of her husband and her cousin and her friends to encourage her.

“You’re not bad at this,” said Irene. “Certainly better than my husband was at first.”

“What, he couldn’t even manage holding still?” said Costis.

“Oh, he’s very good at that when he wants to be,” said Irene. “No, I’m talking about when I taught him the part that Eddis is learning now. He has the dexterity for it but not the, ah…” Her voice trailed off delicately, not in embarrassment, as someone who didn’t know her might think, but the way it did when she was trying to think of the most devastating way to finish a sentence.

“Patience?” Helen suggested, very familiar with that particular lack of Gen’s. Sophos snickered, and Helen was reminded that he, out of all the people in the room, was the other one besides her who’d known Gen during the most reckless--some might say obnoxious--time of his childhood.

“Years of experience,” said Gen, only pouting a little bit, which made Helen think that she had been correct in her guess.

“Temperament,” Irene corrected, diplomatically. They had stopped dancing, frozen in the ending position with Irene’s hands on Helen’s waist, and instead of letting her go Irene leaned closer, allowing Helen to rest her chin on Irene’s shoulder. “Also, he never did quite figure out how to move his hips the right way.” Everyone laughed at that, even Gen, though he tried his best to get out an indignant, “Rude!” first.

“Aren’t you going to mention how long it took you to learn that terrifying rooftop dance that he’s so fond of?” said Kamet, not looking up from his very important task of gazing lovingly into Costis’s eyes.

“And here I thought I could trust you,” said Irene.

“I’m your advisor,” he said. “I’m supposed to tell you the truth.”

“Oh, is  _ that _ what advisors are for?” said Gen. “Darling, we’ve been doing it all wrong.”

“Yes, because no one has ever told us that before,” said Irene. “And to answer your question, Kamet, no, I don’t think I will mention that.”

“I thought she was joking,” Sophos said, “when she said we had to dance on the very edge of the roof. We don’t do that in Sounis.”

“No, I imagine you wouldn’t,” said Irene. “In Attolia, too, we prefer to have fun with our feet a little more firmly on the ground.”

“That’s unfair,” said Helen, mock-offended on her country’s behalf. “There are other Eddisian dances that are much more earthbound. Much easier for you flatlanders to get used to.”

“Like stealing other people’s lovers,” said Gen, with a grin, because of course she couldn’t rely on him to actually back her up on that.

“No,” she said. “That’s a sport, get your own joke right.” And then, with a grin of her own, wrapping her arms more tightly around Irene: “I suppose that makes me the thief.” She could feel Irene’s smile on her lips as she pressed them against Helen’s cheek.

“You can’t steal a person,” Costis objected.

“Yes, usually that’s called kidnapping,” said Kamet dryly.

“Unless that person is a queen,” said Irene. “Then they call it an engagement.”

“Only when the king is the one doing the stealing,” said Helen, and it was strange, that this was something that they could all joke about now, when at the time it had felt horribly serious, like each of them were stepping over lines that could never be uncrossed. Strange that she had once thought she was losing her cousin and best friend to political machinations and the will of his god and his own reckless stubbornness, and that what she thought she wanted more than anything was Attolia humiliated, Attolia defeated, Attolia dead at her feet for what she had done to her family. Strange that now the woman in her arms was as dear to her as her own beloved husband, that they had all survived everything the gods and the Medes had thrown at them, that they were allowed to be this happy, that she could have and hold and keep everything and everyone she hadn’t even known she wanted.

There would be more negotiations tomorrow, more debates to be held and deals to be made, more of the endless work of preventing a country from falling into ruin, more headaches and tax calculations and bickering barons. But for now there was this: fellowship and wine and the warm torchlight of a private room, Gen’s laughter, and Costis and Kamet’s quips, and Sophos’s smiles, and Irene in her arms, the two of them now just swaying together more than doing any real dancing, her hair drifting over Helen’s shoulders and her lips red and soft and sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Delilah by Florence + the Machine
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](bronanlynch.tumblr.com) or in the Queen's Thief discord!


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